Sultry Pleasure. Lindsay Evans
her prepared speech, tapping the index cards briefly against the table.
“A man Diana just met.” Trish grinned wickedly. “He took her off to the dance floor earlier. I thought he was coming my way, but when he latched on to our sweet girl, I was tickled.” The look on her face suggested she wanted to say much more, but she contented herself with making kissing faces when Nora wasn’t looking. Diana rolled her eyes, hiding a smile.
“What’s his name?” Nora asked.
When Trish told her, Nora’s brow furrowed.
“That name sounds familiar.” Nora adjusted her pearls at her throat, eyes looking into the middle distance as she thought about who Marcus was. “Ah, yes. That most enterprising young man who owns the boat my friends and I always see sailing the bay early Sunday mornings. The Dirty Diana, I think it’s called.”
Trish chuckled. “Sounds like a match made in heaven.” She winked at Diana.
Diana kicked her friend under the table, then deliberately turned to Nora. “He seems interesting,” she said.
Nora laughed. “Of course, dear. Even I can see what a lovely piece of man candy that is.”
Trish guffawed. “Man candy, for sure. Something for you to suck on, Di?”
Nora cleared her throat, subtly letting Trish know she had gone a little too far. Trish only grinned, unrepentant.
As the women talked, the room quickly filled with some of the wealthiest and most influential citizens of Miami. Their voices rose and fell in conversation and in laughter as they found their seats. Then the clink of water and wineglasses. The faint strains of Tchaikovsky leaked from the speakers overhead while the host from the Prism Foundation, Sheila Beck, stood at the podium, checked the microphone, then gestured to someone Diana couldn’t see. Before long, everyone was seated at their respective tables, the conversation and music lulling. Unable to help herself, Diana stretched her neck, looking for Marcus. But she didn’t see him.
* * *
Marcus stood at the entrance to the ballroom, watching the crowd settle into their seats. From across the room, he saw Diana at the table with her friend, Trish, and three other women. He shook the hands of several men and women he’d done business with over the years and congratulated them on the good work they had been doing.
Although he was supposed to be at the table with Reynaldo and representing his company and his father at the award ceremony, an event where a bunch of rich men and women congratulated each other on the amount of money they were able to write off by tossing peanuts to one cause or another, Marcus was exactly where he wanted to be: watching Diana.
Why did he find her so damn interesting? Marcus asked himself the question as he took in the slender shape of her inclined in a listening pose toward the older woman seated at her table. It could have been that air of innocence about her. The way it made him want to pull her into a dark corner and find out if her lips were as soft as they looked.
“Marcus!”
Reynaldo’s voice pulled him from his reverie. The slender, dark-haired man appeared at Marcus’s side in his tuxedo, black bow tie against his gleaming white shirt. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”
Marcus hadn’t been sure he’d make it either. After a long night and morning at a party in Coconut Grove, he hadn’t been in the mood for anything more than his bed. But responsibility had kicked in. He shrugged off his exhaustion, showered and looked over his secretary’s notes about what was supposed to happen at the event. The Prism Gala was a good PR opportunity for Sacrum Holdings. His donations to their various charities made his company look good and made him look good.
“The committee appreciates your presence,” Reynaldo said. “And I do as well.”
“Of course.” Marcus nodded and shook the man’s hand. “Where are we sitting?”
The VP showed him to a table near the front of the room, a brief walk through the large ballroom that felt like a parade. How many CEOs had shown up to see one of their executives honored? Marcus knew he was one of the few and was being looked at positively as a result. The members of the Prism committee may be a tight-assed lot, but they were also very powerful. You never know when you might need a favor, Marcus thought as he unbuttoned his blazer and sank into the plush chair at Reynaldo’s side.
The ceremony began shortly after they sat, with the music winding all the way down and the conversations tapering off as the host, an excited-looking woman in her mid-forties, Sheila Beck, made her way to the stage and took the microphone. Marcus relaxed in his seat, bracing his elbows on top of the table as he looked around the crowded ballroom.
It was a sea of sameness. Tuxedos, gray dresses and black dresses, pearls, jewels, the occasional flare of a pale blue or green dress, the women for the most part keeping to the traditional muted tones, even though this was Miami. Marcus had no respect for such boring presentation.
Instead of traditional black tie, he wore what he wanted. A red handkerchief in the pocket of his black blazer, the white button-down shirt open at the collar. Black jeans and high-top Jordans. Needlessly rebellious, he knew, but it made him feel better about being trapped indoors for something like this when he’d rather be out making money or playing on his boat.
His eyes found Diana a few tables back. She was watching him. He grinned but she quickly looked away, fiddling with her earring. When he failed to compel her to look at him again through the power of his stare alone, he turned his attention back to the ceremony.
Sheila Beck and her fellow committee members put on a good show. Lively and fast. Reynaldo received his award to much applause while Sacrum Holdings was unexpectedly honored as one of the most environmentally sound companies in Miami. Instead of leaving like he’d originally planned, Marcus sat in his seat, held prisoner by the slim possibility that Diana would go somewhere with him after the ceremony.
Applause. Speeches. The apparent surprise award to one of the women sitting at Diana’s table—a gray-haired woman with more style than half the women in the room, although she did wear the least offensive color imaginable. Marcus took note of the organization, the woman’s name and the fact that she took her time as she grasped the crystal statuette in hands that shook. The woman was gracious on the stage, and brief. She thanked each of her staff by name, including Diana Hobbes, who was apparently the assistant executive director of Building Bridges. Interesting.
Building Bridges was one of the nonprofits he donated to every year. Small world.
As soon as the ceremony was over, Marcus made his way over to Diana’s table. Most of the gala’s attendees still lingered in the ballroom, grabbing one last drink from the open bar or rabidly shaking as many well-connected hands as they could.
Diana was still seated and talking quietly with her boss. As Marcus moved toward her, he was struck again by how delicate and delicious she looked. His imagination easily conjured what it would be like to walk up to her and kiss the back of her neck, inhale the evocative scent of her perfume, peel that ice-blue dress from her body. He stopped just behind her chair and greeted the other women around the table with a nod and smile.
“How about that midnight walk on the beach?” he asked, resting his hands on the back of her chair.
Diana drew in a breath of surprise but did not bother to look at him. She glanced instead at her boss and then at her friend Trish, who smirked up at Marcus.
“I can’t,” Diana said. “I have to wrap things up here with Nora,” she said.
Her boss waved a dismissive hand. “No, you don’t. Take a little time to yourself this evening. It’s been a long and hard road to get here. Enjoy yourself.” She gave a naughty grin of her own.
“Yes, please do,” Trish said, staring pointedly at her friend.
“Well, Diana, it looks like the only resistance is you,” he said, finally able to meet her eyes, which were a deep, velvet brown. “I would really enjoy your company tonight.”